


Of Longing and Heartache

by clockworkouroboros



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Ciri and her two dads, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:21:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22737106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkouroboros/pseuds/clockworkouroboros
Summary: Jaskier has joined Geralt and Ciri on the road. He didn’t realize how hard it would be to see Geralt again.(Title taken from the lyrics of Her Sweet Kiss)
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 59
Kudos: 942





	1. Chapter 1

The first night he’s back, Ciri has a nightmare. She tosses and turns in her sleep, crying out, tears slipping out from beneath closed eyelids. Jaskier isn’t quite sure what to do about it, but he’s right there, so he takes care of it. Geralt is over on the other side of the clearing, and even though he’s not moving, Jaskier can tell that he’s awake. Sleep is the only time he’s ever relaxed, and the figure in the bedroll is stiff as a board.

Many things spring to Jaskier’s mind upon seeing this, but they aren’t worth saying out loud, not when there’s a child screaming and crying in her sleep right there. So he gently pushes at her, wondering if he should wake her up or what, because he’s never had to comfort people in the middle of a nightmare.

She opens her eyes at his poking, and her blue eyes shine wildly in the bright moonlight. She looks at him, at Jaskier, but she’s clearly not seeing him. Or maybe she is, and she doesn’t trust him, which he supposes is fair enough, since she only met him that morning.

“Hey, hey, shh,” he tries, and he puts a hand on her shoulder, wondering what was permissible etiquette. She’s a princess, so he should probably not touch her without her permission, and he should also probably have said, “Hey, hey, shh, your highness,” but if he had done that, Geralt probably would have rolled over and gotten up. Maybe he would have gotten mad at him for causing the nightmare, even though that was ludicrous. Every bit as ludicrous as, say, blaming Jaskier for all his problems in life. He’d never do something like that.

Oh, wait. He already had.

Ciri’s eyes slowly lose their wildness, stop darting back and forth. She closes her mouth, which had been open, screaming. And then she blinks, and her small body sags, her shoulders sinking down, back curling over, and her hands cover her face.

Something Jaskier has already learned about Ciri in the short time he’s known her is that she doesn’t talk much. He thinks she probably used to talk all the time. The way she looks at him and at Geralt, the way she takes in her surroundings, the way she opens her mouth and then shuts it, like she wants to say something but doesn’t know how to start. He doesn’t know what happened to her that rendered her so speechless, but he can take a few guesses, given her status as lion cub of Cintra and the fact that Cintra lies in ruins and flame.

She has plenty of reasons to stay quiet. And she has plenty of nightmare fodder.

Jaskier isn’t quite sure what he can do to make any of it better. He settles for putting an arm around her shoulders, drawing her to his side. He keeps an eye on Geralt, still lying stiffly on the other side of the smoldering fire.

“It’s going to be okay, your highness,” he says, again wondering about etiquette. “It was a bad dream.”

She looks up at him, blue eyes shining, moonlight reflecting off her tears, and slowly shakes her head. “It wasn’t a dream,” she says, her voice so quiet that Jaskier can barely hear her, even in the nighttime quiet. “It was real.”

It’s seven words, but they’re more than she’s said to him all day. She’d talked a little bit to Geralt, but even then, she probably hadn’t uttered more than six sentences over the course of the day.

He hugs her a little bit closer, wondering if she finds it weird. Since he doesn’t really know her at all. But she leans into his side, head resting on his shoulder, and he wonders if that feeling in his stomach, that feeling that’s a little bit of pride and a little bit of terror, is what it feels like to do that thing called  _ parenting. _

“I don’t know what all you’ve seen, your highness,” he says, still unsure of how to calm her, how to help her get past her nightmares without belittling them. “But you’ll be safe here. You’ve got Geralt, and he’s good at keeping people safe.”

“How do you know?” she asks, her voice still barely a whisper.

“It’s part of his job, isn’t it?” Jaskier says, wondering how much of this Geralt is listening to. “He’s kept me safe for over twenty years, whether he liked it or not.” He glances down at Ciri, but she’s staring at the ground. “Without him, a djinn would have killed me. And a band of elves. And probably a lot of other people.”

She glances up at him now, confusion on her face.

He offers her a smile, just a tiny one. “I’m a very annoying person, apparently.” He nods in Geralt’s direction. “Just ask him. He’ll vouch for that.”

And to his delight, Ciri returns his smile. It’s a little watery, and it’s only the tiniest of smiles, but it’s a start.

They sit like that in front of the ashes of the campfire for a long time, until Ciri’s head begins dropping down from Jaskier’s shoulder, and he tucks her back into her bedroll.

—————

On the fourth day after Jaskier joined Geralt again, the Witcher turns to Jaskier. Ciri is off somewhere nearby, taking a bath in a river, and this is the first time Jaskier and Geralt have been properly alone since Jaskier showed up.

“You need to leave,” Geralt says. He’s petting Roach as he says it, but he’s looking at Jaskier, his golden eyes narrowed. He doesn’t seem angry, at least, but Jaskier can’t figure out  _ what _ the Witcher is feeling. He used to be so good at this.

“What do you mean, I need to leave?” Jaskier asks, already feeling defensive. “Are you  _ still _ angry at me for the child surprise? Or what happened between you and Yennefer?”

Geralt opens his mouth, then closes it. He sighs. “It’s not safe, Jaskier.”

“Oh, and travelling with you for the other twenty-odd years was?” He watches Geralt’s expression, waiting to see if that anger that was there back in the mountains is there, waiting to erupt at him. 

But Geralt looks calm. Maybe a bit stressed. He’s watching Jaskier, too, but not in an angry way, or an annoyed way, or in an exasperated way, which is what Jaskier is expecting. No, he looks worried, if anything. Maybe relieved? Geralt grunts and turns to Roach for a moment. 

“If this is you trying to get rid of me, I don’t know that you’ll be able to.” Jaskier has been waiting for this conversation, waiting for it since that day in the mountains. “I know you don’t like me — you made that very clear — and I know things won’t be like they used to, but you need help.”

“I don’t need anything,” Geralt says, repeating that familiar refrain. And ooh, how interesting: now he’s avoiding Jaskier’s eyes, keeping his head bowed, looking at the ground while he pets Roach.

“Except you do, Geralt. And I know you don’t  _ want _ help, especially not from me, but I’m here to help you. You made it clear that it’s entirely my fault that you ended up with your child surprise. Well. Here I am, taking full responsibility for it. Even though I don’t think I deserve full blame for that, not really.” He pauses, tries to meet Geralt’s eye, but the Witcher is being stubborn, and continues to look either at Roach or the ground. “I wasn’t planning on it, but I think I’ll stick around. You might not need me, but Ciri does. Or at least, she needs more than just you.”

Geralt grunts, and then he looks up at Jaskier, and  _ now _ he looks a bit annoyed. “Is it too hard for you to keep yourself safe?” he asks. “I don’t need another person to worry about. It’s too dangerous for you to travel with us. Go somewhere else.”

“I’ll say this again, Geralt:  _ more _ dangerous than the last twenty-odd years I’ve spent with you?”

The Witcher huffs and turns back to Roach.

Jaskier puts his hands on his hips. “I  _ know _ you meant that weird little grunt-y sound to mean  _ yes, _ but I’m going to ignore it, because you need to learn how to talk properly. Ciri can’t interpret your animal noises the way I can. Besides, it’s annoying to be your translator at every town we stop in.”

“You should  _ leave, _ Jaskier.”

“And when has that ever stopped me from following you? We’re friends. Or we  _ were, _ and we still could be, if you’d just get your head out of your arse and listen to what I’m saying.”

Geralt looks at him, a deadpan expression on his face. “You say so much that I don’t listen to most of it.” He pauses, turns back to Roach. “Anything important can be said in no more than a few sentences.”

“I’m saying that you don’t have to do this alone.” Jaskier has been telling himself for four days that he won’t touch Geralt at all, that he’ll leave the Witcher alone as best he can, but he can’t help it. He puts a hand on Geralt’s arm.

It means nothing, or at least, it used to mean nothing. Now, there’s a world of meaning to it. Jaskier can’t help but wonder if Geralt is also looking at this as something big, something huge, a shift in their relationship as of right now. Probably not, but he can hope.

Geralt turns from Roach again to look at him, and this time, he looks at Jaskier properly, from head to toe, then focuses on his eyes. The moments slip by, and Jaskier wonders what’s going to happen, what Geralt will say or do.

And then he tilts his head, and the barest ghost of a smile touches his lips, and he says, “I’m glad you’re back, Jaskier.”

It’s not an apology. Their relationship isn’t magically mended. Things are still going to be weird and awkward for a little bit. But it’s a start, and that’s all Jaskier needs.

—————

Jaskier’s stopped keeping track of the days since he started travelling with Geralt and Ciri, but he knows it’s been at least two weeks, when he finally finds out what exactly is going on.

They’re settling down in the woods, about to start a fire to cook their supper. Ciri and Jaskier are sitting side by side on a fallen log, and Geralt is a little ways away, finishing the less-than-pleasant task of skinning the deer he caught. Jaskier is working on starting the fire, and Ciri had gathered all the sticks and pieces of wood she could find, and they’ll have a very respectable meal, once everything is under way.

In the meantime, though, Jaskier is stuck trying to get a spark going, and he’s having some trouble. 

Ciri puts a small hand on his arm, so light that he doesn’t even notice at first. “Are you sure Geralt will keep me safe?” she asks, her voice small, timid. She’s been getting more and more talkative by the day, but most of the time, her voice is so quiet that it gets lost in the noise of nature.

“Hmm?” Jaskier says, struggling with his flint.

“You said that Geralt is good at keeping people safe. Are you sure?”

Jaskier pauses in his efforts and looks over at Ciri, offers her a smile. “I wouldn’t say it if I weren’t absolutely certain,” he replies. “He’s rescued me from more evil beasties than I can count.” He resumes his struggles with the flint.

“You said there was a djinn?”

He glances over at her. “Are you asking for a story, your highness?” he asks, grinning.

She blushes, a faint pink blossoming out over her cheeks. “Maybe. And call me Ciri.”

So he tells her about the djinn, changing one or two  _ tiny _ details, because Ciri is young and he doesn’t know at what age it’s acceptable to use the word  _ orgy _ in telling a story, and he really doesn’t want Geralt to get mad at him for including the bit about, say, fucking Yennefer of Vengerberg. And as he tells the story, he’s finally able to get the fire started, and Geralt finishes skinning the deer, and soon they’re eating venison, seasoned with the spices that Jaskier has learned to keep in his bag at all times when on the road. Just because Geralt apparently doesn’t have taste buds doesn’t mean that Jaskier can handle food that hasn’t even been  _ salted. _

Ciri appreciates the seasonings, too. Probably because she’s been raised as royalty, not as a Witcher. She grew up in the Cintran court, drinking their ale and eating their meat. 

Alright, maybe not drinking their ale. Jaskier isn’t quite sure at what age drinking ale is acceptable, but he’s fairly sure she wouldn’t have spent her childhood in it, not when there were other, less potent, alternatives.

Geralt grunts and rolls his eyes through most of Jaskier’s story, letting them know  _ exactly _ what he thinks about that particular time, and Jaskier’s biased and inaccurate retelling of it, in his own peculiar, wordless way.

And Ciri looks from Jaskier to Geralt and back to Jaskier, and then something new happens. A tiny, bubbly noise escapes from her throat, so quiet that Jaskier can barely hear it, as he re-enacts  _ I’m sorry, but I left my cat...on the...stove! _ It takes him a moment to figure out what the sound is, and then the realization hits.

She’s laughing.

It’s not a big laugh, and it sounds a little bit choked, like she’s as surprised by it as Jaskier, but it’s something. It’s a start.

When he finishes his story, stumbling a little as he tries to figure out how to work his way around Geralt and Yennefer fucking, Ciri looks up at him, an easy smile resting on her face, and he feels that sense of pride and terror again, the one he often feels when he interacts with Ciri. The one where he can’t believe how far she’s come in only the two weeks since he met her. She’s only had two nightmares since that first night, and she’s started smiling and talking more, and just now? Just now she was laughing! He’s so proud of her, of this little girl who’s been through so much, seen so much.

And that’s where the terror comes in, because she’s been through so much, and she’s still on the run. He doesn’t know who from, but he can guess. He can guess that Nilfgaard wants to get rid of any of Calanthe’s lineage. He can guess she’s been on the run since the sack of Cintra. But he can’t even begin to understand how she escaped. Besides, they’re far, far north. Far beyond Nilfgaard’s reach. By this point, the danger of being caught is much lower.

Of course, Jaskier knows that what your brain rationally knows and how you emotionally react are two very different things. For example, Jaskier rationally knows that his feelings towards Geralt are idiotic and that he should really just ignore them and enjoy the fact that he and Geralt are slowly patching up their relationship. But emotionally, he cannot, apparently, get over Geralt like that. So Jaskier spends his time with Ciri, doting on the princess and doing anything he can to get her to smile. Tries to keep his relationship with Geralt a little more distanced.

Later that night, after Ciri is asleep, Geralt and Jaskier sit on opposite sides of the campfire, both staring into the dying flames, almost motionless.

Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Jaskier looks up, fidgeting with the ends of his sleeves. “I don’t want to pry,” he says, even though everything he’s about to say is with the intent to pry, “but I’ve been travelling with you and the princess for at least two weeks now and I still don’t know what’s going on.”

Geralt gives an unimpressed grunt, eyebrows raised, a half-smile forming on his lips. “I claimed the child surprise.”

“Well, yes, I know that,” Jaskier replies. “That much is patently obvious. She’s your child surprise. And she’s travelling with you. And Cintra is in ruins. I’m not entirely stupid, Geralt.”

“That remains to be seen,” Geralt mutters. “She managed to escape Cintra on her own. I don’t know how. We found each other by accident. We’d been travelling for about a month before you showed up. Chased by Nilfgaardian soldiers and assassins the whole time.”

“And you don’t know how she escaped or what she did in the meantime, trying to find you?”

“I didn’t ask,” Geralt replies shortly. “She’ll tell me if she wants to. She barely said five words to me the first several days we travelled together. It takes time to get over the things she’s seen.”

Jaskier sighs and picks up a twig, picking at its bark. “Ignoring trauma isn’t going to help her get over it,” he says. “And anyway, how does she know that it’s safe to talk to you?” He chances a glance over the fire at Geralt. “It’s not like you give a, a, a friendly sort of message to anyone. To all but your closest friends, you seem very forbidding.”

“Hm. And what do my closest friends think?”

Jaskier pauses. “I don’t know that I count anymore, so I couldn’t tell you.”

Geralt looks up from the fire. “Jaskier…” he says, and there’s actual regret in his tone, sorrow in his golden eyes.

“Your words on that mountain made me realize the consequences of my actions.” Jaskier stands up, stretches, cracks his back. “Now you get to realize the consequences of yours. Good night, Geralt.”

And he crawls into his bedroll and falls asleep, on the other side of the campfire, leaving Geralt to sit there, watching, his eyes still full of sorrow, his mouth open like he wants to say something.

—————

The following weeks see the weather grow even colder. Jaskier begins to worry about his lute, and keeps it in the case as often as possible, trying to shield it from the harsh weather. He tries to keep his complaining to a minimum, although he does insist on staying in inns more frequently. He always argues it on Ciri’s behalf, claiming that royalty, even fugitive royalty, should not have to make camp on a forest floor more than necessary, and that it’s particularly cruel to do so in this weather. Although he’s always preferred sleeping in actual beds in actual rooms (no matter the risk of bedbugs) to sleeping outside, he’s made a point to avoid suggesting it or insisting on it, and all for one simple reason.

He’s not ready to share a bed with Geralt. Not yet. Things are still too fresh, the wounds still not fully healed. Travelling with the Witcher has never been harder, Jaskier has decided. Before, at least, he didn’t have to involuntarily dwell on Geralt’s words on the mountain before falling asleep every night. He didn’t have to spend time each day wondering how much of their previous relationship he can salvage. He didn’t have to wonder how much of Geralt’s outburst was meant, completely and honestly. Now, of course, he has to deal with all these things. And that means it’ll be awkward even doing something as simple as sharing a bed. Something they used to do all the time, because it was cheaper and coin was often scarce.

But Ciri is starting to get sick from all of the nights of sleeping outside, and Jaskier is dreading the cold enough to not care as much about sharing a bed with Geralt, so he starts pestering the Witcher, reminding him that he and Ciri are human, actually, and they can’t survive outside on winter nights.

So that night, they stop in a small town and get two rooms, because Ciri deserves her privacy, and right now they have enough coin to afford it. The only thing Jaskier is worried about is her bad dreams. It’s true that they’ve gotten less frequent, but what happens if one attacks her tonight? She won’t have anyone there to comfort her, to hug her, to sit by her as she falls back asleep. She’s still a child, even if she’s at the edge of childhood, and she needs extra love and care and attention after all the things she’s been put through.

But Ciri stays with them until they insist it’s her bedtime. She’s not especially talkative tonight, but she lets Jaskier braid her hair, still wet from her bath (“keep the cold off your neck a bit, I hope”) and sits, blue eyes darting from Geralt to Jaskier, like she’s expecting them to say something important. Jaskier can’t figure out what the important thing would be, so he fills the air with nonsense, talking about the songwriting process and coming up with a few rhymes that make Geralt grunt and Ciri blush.

When she bids them goodnight and heads to her own room, right next door, Geralt finally turns to Jaskier. His white hair is down, and for once, it’s clean, and he looks like an entirely different person. Softer, more open, happier. “You get along well with Ciri,” he says quietly, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Does he? Jaskier feels like there’s still ice between him and the princess, that she’s still too traumatized to properly connect with either him or Geralt. Not that he blames her, of course, since he can’t even begin to imagine what she saw in the sack of Cintra. But just because he’s been trying to get close to her doesn’t mean that he gets along well with her. Not yet, anyway.

So he makes a joke out of it. “It’s just my well-bred manners and etiquette,” he says lightly, the grin on his face hiding his feelings. “When a princess travels with a Witcher and a viscount, it’s only natural that she would get along a bit better with the nobleman.”

Geralt stops what he’s doing, his shirt half off. “You’re a viscount?” he asks, and Jaskier can hear the surprise in his normally emotionless voice.

Oh. Oh, dear. Has he really never told Geralt about his childhood? He always talks so much, more than enough for the two of them. In the twenty-odd years that he’s known Geralt, he  _ must _ have let something slip that he’s a nobleman.

He manages to bring the smile back to his face and says, “Oh, there’s a lot about me you don’t know, Witcher. You still think Jaskier is my given name.”

Geralt pauses again in taking off his shirt and looks over at Jaskier. “You  _ what?” _ he asks, voice even more confused.

Apparently his humor is falling flat tonight. Oh well. He shrugs, unfastening his doublet and shaking it off. “Doesn’t matter,” he says. Geralt probably won’t ask a follow-up question, because Geralt doesn’t really  _ do _ those.

Sure enough, Geralt just gives him a strange look and finishes taking his shirt off, gets up, and collapses on one side of the bed. He lays there, one arm underneath his head like a pillow, for a few moments, then half sits up, looking at Jaskier. “It’s late,” he says.

Jaskier has been friends with Geralt for long enough to pick up on the unspoken words. The  _ are you coming to bed? _ and the  _ aren’t you tired, too?  _ and the  _ it’s cold in here, even though it’s indoors, so hurry up. _

He wonders if there’s a way he could reply that shows that he understands all of the unspoken words. He offers a half-smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know,” he says, keeping his voice light. “I’m almost ready.”

Sliding into bed next to Geralt is almost torture. The Witcher took a bath earlier, so now he smells like soap and the lavender bath salts Jaskier had sprinkled into the tub, rather than the sweat and leather and monster guts that were his normal perfume. And he’s big and muscle-y and takes up over half the bed just on account of his size, so Jaskier has to be careful if he’s trying to avoid touching Geralt. Which he is. Because he tried to bare his heart to Geralt once already, on the mountain, the day before... _ that. _ And he’s not ready to expose himself like that again, not when Geralt reacts like that.

But he slides into bed anyway, trying and failing to ignore the man next to him, who’s big and strong and warm. It would be so easy in this moment to fall back into old habits: cuddle up to him, drape an arm around him, see if he reciprocates.

He doesn’t do any of those things, though. He sticks to the promise he made to himself, that he would stay distanced from Geralt. He wonders if sharing a bed with the Witcher breaks that promise anyway.

And then he feels the contact of warm skin against his back, Geralt moving closer to him, an arm coming to rest over his waist, Geralt’s slow breathing on his bare shoulder and neck.

He goes still, enjoying the sensation, even though every rational part of his brain is screaming at him, bemoaning his stupidity, his irrationality, his infatuation.

“Jaskier?” The Witcher’s voice is low, barely a whisper against the name of his neck.

“Hmm?” Normally he’s full of words, but he’s not quite sure where this is going, and his brain is refusing to work properly because this is the closest he’s been to Geralt since the mountains.

There’s a pause, and even the breath against Jaskier’s shoulder stops for a moment. “I’m… sorry,” Geralt finally says.

Jaskier’s heart stops beating. He doesn’t know if he can breathe, for a moment, at least. And then he lets out a deep, shuddering breath, one that’s almost a sigh, and he rolls over so he’s facing Geralt.

“Sorry about what, exactly?” he asks. He knows he should just accept the apology and leave it, because this is proof enough that Geralt has noticed his changed behavior and doesn’t like it, but Jaskier has never been one to do the things he should.

Geralt’s eyes meet his, golden and warm like the sun on a summer afternoon. He sighs, or maybe it’s a groan, Jaskier can’t quite tell. “I… shouldn’t have said those things on the mountain.”

Jaskier’s heart stands still again.

“None of it was true,” the Witcher continues, and Jaskier becomes very suddenly aware that the arm Geralt had draped over his waist is now moving, his calloused hands drawing tiny circles on his back. He pauses. “Most of it wasn’t true.” The — what was it,  _ stroking? _ — on his back continues. 

Jaskier lets out another shaky breath, not even sure why he’s getting so upset. He thought he’d gotten over Geralt, hadn’t he? He manages a grin at Geralt. “I accept your apology,” he says, trying to keep his voice from doing the same shaky thing that his breathing has succumbed to. “But only if you accept that you have all the social skills and emotional intelligence of a donkey cross-bred with a manticore.”

“You can’t breed donkeys with manticores, Jaskier.”

“The physical possibility of breeding a donkey with a manticore really wasn’t the point I was trying to make.”

“Hm.”

Over the many years Jaskier has spent travelling with Geralt, he has become quite adept at translating Geralt’s many various grunting noises. One grunt might mean that he’s angry, and another might be Geralt’s equivalent of laughing so hard you can’t breathe. He is very talented and adept at displaying the many ways a grunt or hmm can be used.

Jaskier also knows that Geralt’s soft, tired, pleasant  _ hm _ was an acknowledgement that he knows the point Jaskier was trying to make, that Jaskier was right about everything except the physical possibility of breeding manticores with donkeys.

_ Hm _ can mean many things. Especially when it comes from Geralt.

So he closes his eyes and falls asleep, quite alright with Geralt drawing him close, in a protective embrace. Things will be alright after this. This is the start.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did end up writing a bit of a second chapter! Not making any promises that it’s the same even tonally to the first chapter. It’s still geraskier, it’s still Jaskier’s pov, but I think Ciri is more of the focus for this one. Lowkey have ideas for even more than these two chapters, but I’m afraid to commit to writing anything longer, so we’re gonna leave it at this for now, and I can always add another chapter if I actually decide to move forward on this.

They don’t go to Kaer Morhen that first year, instead choosing to spend their time heading steadily south. Jaskier isn’t sure that’s a good idea: Nilfgaard is a southern kingdom, and they’re the ones looking for Ciri, but Geralt insists this is why it’s a good idea. Nilfgaard will be looking for her farther north, in the safety of kingdoms like Verden and Temeria, or possibly still in the ruins of Cintra. They won’t be expecting her anywhere farther south, so it will be easier to keep her safe from assassins or spies.

Not that Ciri sees it that way. Jaskier can see a physical change in the girl as they get farther south. If he thought she’d been quiet before, now she’s absolutely silent. She rides in front of Geralt on Roach, while Jaskier gets his own horse, a mare, and he can see her shrink into Geralt’s chest, her back curling over, shoulders hunching up.

Jaskier isn’t sure if Geralt didn’t notice, or if he’s just ignoring it for the time being. He supposes, given Geralt’s heightened senses, that he  _ must _ know that Ciri is feeling anxious and frightened. Even Jaskier, with his measly human capabilities, can sense it. 

That night, when Ciri goes to collect firewood, he approaches Geralt. Things are beginning to heal between them, but he’s been letting Geralt set the pace for that. It means that touches are few and far between, hushed conversations are short and to the point, and they don’t discuss much beyond what’s absolutely necessary. Geralt and Jaskier have different definitions of what counts as necessary. Even if the Witcher won’t acknowledge Ciri’s fears, they’re there, and they’re real, and they’re understandable. And it’s Jaskier’s job to make sure she stays okay.

“We need to turn around,” he mutters, keeping an eye on Ciri’s figure moving through the shadowy woods.

Geralt grunts. “This is the safest option.”

“We’re walking into a lion’s den, Geralt!”

“The lions are hunting elsewhere.”

This is infuriating. Like everything else about his situation right now. He stops himself from offering a retort that would further stretch the lion analogy, bites his lip for a moment, then says, “Does  _ she _ know that, though?”

Geralt’s eyes dart to where Ciri is still collecting sticks, then back to Jaskier’s face. He gives a grunt, a short, “Hm,” of affirmation.

“You know I told you to stop doing that. I refuse to be your translator. You, my dear Witcher, need to learn how to talk like everyone else. Does Ciri know that you think it’s safer down south?”

Geralt gives a long-suffering sigh. “Yes. I told her already. She understands perfectly.” He gives Jaskier a  _ look, _ one that says,  _ Must you question everything? Just trust me. _ “She’s not a little child, Jaskier. She doesn’t need your hovering.”

Oh, now _that’s_ unnecessary. “My...hovering?” Jaskier asks, slowly. “She escaped the _fucking_ _massacre of Cintra,_ Geralt. She is the Cintran princess, and she is being _hunted down_ by Nilfgaard. And you think, ‘Oh, let’s go to Nilfgaard. That’s the best place to take this traumatized child.’ Right to the place that’s trying to kill her!”

“Not kill her.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“They’re not trying to kill her,” Geralt says, letting out a deep exhalation of breath, something that’s  _ almost _ a sigh, but not quite. “I don’t know what they’re trying to do, but it isn’t assassination.”

Jaskier wants to ask what  _ is _ going on, then. What  _ does _ Geralt know, actually? But before he can do anything other than open his mouth, Ciri comes back to the clearing, arms full of sticks and dead wood. Her eyes are big, her mouth pressed tightly shut, her jaw clearly set firm. Her hair is falling out of the braid Jaskier put it in this morning, and her nose is a little pink from the cold.

He takes a step back from Geralt, suddenly aware of how close the two had gotten to each other in their argument, and smiles at Ciri, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“What were you two talking about?” Ciri asks, dropping the wood into the clearing. It’s the most she’s said all day, and the moment the last word is out of her mouth, she snaps her jaw shut again, so hard that Jaskier winces in sympathy.

“Just talking about our route tomorrow,” he replies, hating the fact that he’s lying to Ciri. He’s trying to build her trust, to get her over her fears of attachment, of trusting him or Geralt. She’s started asking the two of them odd personal questions when they come back from doing something, like fighting a monster or relieving themselves. Something has shaken her, destroyed her ability to trust anyone or anything, and he doesn’t know what. All he does know is that lying to her is possibly the worst thing in the world that he could be doing right now.

“It sounded angry,” she replies, and there’s something in her bright-blue eyes that makes him wonder if she overheard any of what they said.

Jaskier manages a grin, but it’s a short thing, flashing and then disappearing almost immediately. He can’t seem to get into a good mood tonight. It must be this infernal cold, the northern winter. “Geralt and I were having a disagreement about where we should go.”

“He said we were going south.” Ciri is still snapping her jaw shut after every sentence, so hard that Jaskier is surprised that she isn’t wincing at her teeth clacking together like that. “Towards Nilfgaard.”

“And that’s why we’re having an argument.” Jaskier has an idea, one that might just work. If Geralt won’t listen to him, maybe he’ll listen to Ciri. “I think it would be too dangerous to go south. Better to stay north. Head for Geralt’s Witcher fortress, maybe? Or, you know, find somewhere to stay for the winter, even if it isn’t Geralt’s fortress of Witchery Witcherness.”

“Kaer Morhen isn’t mine,” Geralt says, cutting in. “It’s too late to go there. Winter’s early this year. It’ll be impossible to get there.” He stops speaking, as abruptly as he started.

“Well,” says Jaskier, studying Geralt’s face even as he begins his nightly battle with the flint, “I think it would be wise to stay up here somewhere. Find somewhere to rest up and keep warm. Since going south would be a bad choice.” He turns to Ciri, tongue halfway out of his mouth as he continues to try and start a fire. “What say you, princess? Towards Nilfgaard, or stay up here and try to find a place to rent, or something?”

Ciri looks startled, her blue eyes growing big, fearful, and she looks from Jaskier to Geralt, and back again. “I...don’t know,” she finally says.

“It’s settled, then.” Geralt sits down next to Jaskier, watching him struggle. There’s something like amusement in his golden eyes, but when he turns to Ciri, he’s deadly serious. “We’ll head south.”

Well, Ciri would have been able to change Geralt’s mind. Maybe he shouldn’t have stressed to her how important it was to trust Geralt. Because  _ he _ at least could see the look in Ciri’s eyes, the terror in her face at the very idea of going south. Towards the people who killed the only family she had left, brutalized and massacred her people, and then decided to hunt her down.

“Bollocks to this,” Jaskier says out loud. He turns to Geralt, although he really doesn’t have to move too much, because Geralt sat down almost shoulder-to-shoulder next to him. “I don’t mean the going south thing. Although, bollocks to that, too, while we’re still on the subject.”

“What were you actually bollocksing?” Geralt asks, tilting his head.

“I sit here every night, trying for  _ years _ on end to get these fires started, when you’ve got your silly little fire spell that could start it every night without trouble. Bollocks to this.” He pauses. “But also to going south. I’d much rather freeze my arse off up here than go anywhere  _ near _ Nilfgaard.”

Geralt lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, and makes the sign of Aard. Flames leap from the logs. He glances over at Jaskier. “There. Are you happy?”

Jaskier considers. “Only marginally. We’re still going south in the morning, remember?”

Geralt grunts and then, to Jaskier’s surprise, puts an arm around his shoulders. He tries to ignore the questioning look Ciri throws his way.

—————

That night, Ciri has a nightmare. It’s the first nightmare she’s had in awhile, in a few weeks, actually, and it’s bad. It’s  _ really _ bad.

Jaskier knows that Ciri is a princess. That her mother, when she was still alive, possessed...remarkable powers. That Ciri could have inherited this gift from her mother. (And also that her father was a magically cursed hedgehog man at the time of her conception, and who knows what that would do to a child.) He knows that Princess Pavetta had little to no control over her powers. He knows that, logically, the same would apply to Ciri, if she possessed such powers. That she would appear normal until some catalyst event.

Of course, logically knowing these things and actually experiencing it are two completely different things. He’s used to waking up and calming Ciri through nightmares, stroking her hair and holding her hand as she falls back asleep, whimpering and hiccuping. He’s used to hugging her tight, to talking to her until she wakes up, to soothing her until she’s figured out that it’s him, not whatever she was seeing in her dream.

He’s taken care of those things since joining Geralt and Ciri on the road. He doesn’t know that Geralt would be good at those things. He’s always been pretty objectively terrible at comfort. And while Jaskier has always taken a certain comfort in the Witcher’s bluntness and taciturn disposition, he doesn’t think that’s the sort of thing that will calm down a screaming, traumatized girl from her nightmare.

But when he wakes up this time, hearing her screams, he finds he can’t move. Winds have picked up, centering on Ciri like a tornado or hurricane, with her at the center. She’s sitting upright and her eyes are wide open, but unseeing, her blue irises rolled back, showing mostly the whites of her eyes, and her hands are clenched at her sides. She’s rigid, mouth wide open, screaming, tears rolling down her cheeks from her eyes, her eyes that are staring into nothing.

He manages to sit up, straining and pushing against the wind, and, out of the corner of his eye, he can see Geralt doing the same. It looks like Geralt is trying to form some kind of sign that will allow him to do some Witcher magic, but he can’t move very easily in this maelstrom of Ciri’s fear.

“Princess!” Jaskier shouts, not sure what he’s doing. His voice can barely be heard above the noise. “Your highness! Ciri!”

Her head snaps in his direction, her eyes still rolled back into her skull, but there’s a little hitch in her screaming, a little flicker in the wind.

“Ciri,” he tries again. “It’s alright! Just — just let me in!” With an effort, he begins crawling over, making his way the few feet to her bedroll. It feels like it’s taking hours, and every movement is difficult. He can feel Ciri’s unseeing gaze on him, and he can feel Geralt watching him from where he’s still pinned to his own bedroll.

He collapses at Ciri’s side, bringing his arm around her tiny frame, around her shoulders, just like he always does. “Ciri!” he shouts again, wishing her eyes would close or something, because it’s terrifying to look at her right now. “It’s going to be okay! I’m here!”

There’s another hitch in the screaming, a flicker in the storm, and then it leaves altogether, leaving only the destroyed campsite to prove its existence in the first place. Ciri lets out a sudden, deep gasp and crumples into Jaskier’s arms, her small frame folding in on itself, and then she’s crying, she’s crying hard, her sobs making her entire body shake.

He’s helped her through every nightmare since joining them on the road, but Jaskier is still never sure what to do at this point, the point after the nightmare but before she falls back asleep. This is the part where he always feels uncertain.

Tonight, that feeling is doubled, genetically mutated and subjected to Witcher elixirs and potions that serve only to make it stronger and more powerful. How do you comfort a screaming girl who just destroyed the camp you made and nearly killed you and her guardian?

He settles for hugging her close, and is surprised when she returns the hug, clutching at him tightly, like he’ll disappear forever if she doesn’t. Normally, he holds her and that’s it, until she falls back asleep. Tonight, she needs someone to hug, not just for someone to hug her.

“Hey, it’ll be okay,” he says softly, trying to ignore Geralt, who’s sitting up, watching them, looking uncertain. “You’ll be okay. Shh. It’ll be okay.” He pushes a strand of hair back from her face.

This normally works. But tonight, she hugs him tighter, and he can feel her shake her head no, rather than see it. “It won’t,” she says, her voice muffled by her tears and his shirt.

“What happened?” he asks. He doesn’t, as a rule, ask about her nightmares, reasoning that Ciri will tell him if she wants. He’ll be there to listen and to comfort her, but he won’t pry. Tonight is a little different.

“They–he–” Ciri gulps, choking on her words. She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “The man. The man with the bird helmet. He was coming after me again.”

Jaskier has no idea who the man with the bird helmet is. Probably Nilfgaardian, but aside from that, he has no clue. But the way Ciri mentions him — that quaver in her voice, the way she hugged just that little bit tighter as she said  _ again. _

_ Again. _ Jaskier stops breathing for a split second as that word registers in his brain.  _ Again. _ He’s been chasing her. This man with the bird helmet, whoever he is, has come after her before. Probably at least once in real life, if he’s showing up in dreams.  _ Again. _ The thought of this man hunting Ciri down, tracking her like a hunter tracking a wild animal, like Geralt hunting a monster, makes Jaskier’s blood run cold.  _ Again. _

He wraps his arms around her more fully, giving her a bear hug. “He’s not here right now, I promise,” he says, his voice still soft. “He was a bad dream.”

But Ciri isn’t listening to him, or maybe she’s worked up enough, shut down enough that she can’t hear him. “He was coming after me again,” she repeats, and Jaskier can’t see her face, because it’s buried into his shirt, but he’s pretty sure the tears have started up again. “He was coming after me and I couldn’t move, I couldn’t do anything, and he was going to get me, and–” Her voice breaks off, and she begins crying harder.

“Ciri,” he says gently, and then again, a little louder. She looks up at him, face tear-stained, eyes glistening in the moonlight, strands of hair sticking to her cheeks. “It’ll be alright now,” he says, wishing he could say that without feeling like he’s lying. “Geralt won’t let the–the–the man with the bird helmet find you.”

“That’s not what’s bad,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything. Jaskier, he’s chased me down before.” Her voice drops even more. Jaskier hadn’t realized that was possible. “I–I was able to get away. The earth opened up and kept him from getting me.”

“You know what I think?” Jaskier asks, still holding her close, because that’s what she needs right now. He doesn’t wait for her reply before continuing. He knows she’s not going to. “I think it was a bad dream, playing a what-if scenario.” He looks down at her, at the top of her head resting against his chest. “It was still really scary, it felt real, it was a very bad dream.”

She nods, almost imperceptibly.

“But that’s not what really happened,” Jaskier continues. “You were able to stop him from getting you, even without trying to.”

“But what if he comes after me again?” Ciri asks, her voice still so quiet that he can barely hear her. “What happens if I can’t get away and Geralt is gone and you’re gone and I can’t do anything?”

Jaskier kisses the top of her head. “It’ll be alright. That won’t happen. And even if it does, did you see what you did to this campsite even in your sleep? Without trying to?”

“What?” She looks up, now, away from Jaskier, at the remnants of the destroyed campsite, at Geralt, sitting in his bedroll on the other side of the fire, his hair looking distinctly disheveled. She looks back at Jaskier.

“Did you know,” he says, trying to keep his voice light, pleasant, even though he feels like he should be shaking in fear right now. “That I met your parents once? Pavetta and Duny?”

“What?” she says again.

He grins down at her. “I was at their wedding. Would you believe that your grandmother wouldn’t let them marry, and when your mother thought she’d be parted from your father forever, she destroyed the palace?” He pauses. “Not deliberately. I mean to say that you and she have the same gift. Your mother wasn’t able to control it either, but she was able to use it when she was very scared without even thinking about it. Like you were scared just now. In your dream.” He kisses the top of her head again. “That’s why the man with the bird helmet will never be able to get you. Even if something happens to Geralt, which nothing will, you still have that power deep inside you. You’ll be okay, Ciri.”

“Jaskier?”

“Yes?”

She pauses, hesitant. “Maybe…maybe we shouldn’t go south tomorrow.”

He hugs her close, and she finally relaxes, stops gripping him so tightly. “Your wish is our command, princess.”

He knows Geralt is listening, and she knows Geralt is listening, and he wonders what the Witcher thinks of all this. Wonders if Geralt will be angry at him for agreeing to head back north without asking him.

He decides that it’s okay if Geralt is annoyed. He won’t be bothered by it. Geralt is doing a good job taking care of Ciri, but in this matter he was thinking like a strategist, and not a guardian. Not a parent.

When Ciri is finally asleep again, he goes to Geralt’s bedroll instead of his own. He’s exhausted, drained in more ways than just physical. It feels like his very life force has been drained from him, and he’s cold and shivery and not thinking straight, and he needs to be by someone, and Geralt is the only other person here.

It’s close quarters, two people sharing a bedroll, especially when one of them is Geralt’s size, but they make it work. Jaskier relaxes against Geralt’s chest, relaxes the way he couldn’t when he was comforting Ciri, and Geralt puts a protective arm around him, in a way that makes Jaskier wonder, tiredly, if the movement was subconscious.

But he’s too tired to think about that.

—————

They find the abandoned farmhouse just before the snowstorm that’s been gathering in the gray clouds above them hits. It’s small, only a few rooms, and it’s in need of some repairs, but there are no holes in the roof, and only a few drafty areas, so all in all, it’s a stroke of luck. 

They’ve been camping out for two weeks since the nightmare, heading north little bit by little bit. The people up here are more brusque, less friendly, and Jaskier makes a mental note that Temeria is not a good place to go looking for work, not in the wintertime. It’s odd, he decides. You’d think that the places that get the most miserable would want bards the most, to keep spirits up. Especially in depressing winter weather. Temeria’s national pastime is bitching about the snow, and, as a northerner himself, Jaskier can relate to that very strongly. But honestly, bitching about the snow shouldn’t take up so much time that they can’t even enjoy the famous bard, Jaskier, gracing them with his songs.

So the funds are running a bit low. Geralt’s a bit of a national celebrity, even more famous than Jaskier around here, which is a surprise, honestly, since Jaskier has never been to Temeria with Geralt, but apparently the Witcher had a scrape with someone here, years and years ago. Jaskier thought he heard someone say something about a cursed princess, but he must have misheard something. Geralt couldn’t play some part in rescuing every princess on the Continent.

“Well?” Jaskier asks, ushering Ciri into the farmhouse. “What do you think?”

She looks around at the main room, one of the only rooms in the entire house, with something like disappointment written across her face. “It’s...small,” she replies, wrinkling her nose. “And it smells funny.”

“Oh, that’s the age of the house,” Jaskier declares airily, waving a hand in the air dismissively. “The lives lived in this house, the history that has happened around this very place, the–”

“The rat droppings in the corner?” Geralt asks, stepping inside and dusting snow off his jacket. He’d been finding a place to tie up Roach, take care of her for the night. He looks annoyed, and maybe a bit cold. Which would make sense. This house is none too warm. Jaskier wishes for a warm, comforting inn, where the beer flows and the beds are, if not  _ comfortable, _ at least better than sleeping on the frozen ground.

Ciri gets one of the two rooms in the farmhouse to herself, and Jaskier offers her his bedroll along with her own, to use as an extra blanket. She gives him an odd look at that, but doesn’t say anything. Geralt just rolls his eyes and lets out a “hm,” almost like a laugh, and says, “Have fun freezing tonight, bard.”

But he doesn’t turn Jaskier away when he squeezes into the bedroll alongside him, only grunts a little and moves over to allow more room.

“I was almost worried you’d let me freeze like you told Ciri I would,” Jaskier mutters, squirming into the bedroll. “Should have known you wouldn’t.” He settles down, stops moving, feeling the warmth of Geralt’s body heat through his shirt. “You’re just a big softie at heart, aren’t you?”

Geralt grunts.

“Come on, Geralt, I said I wouldn’t translate your animal noises anymore.” Jaskier moves ever so slightly closer, and Geralt’s arm moves, almost of its own accord, draping over his side, hand coming to rest on his back, thumb moving in tiny circles along his side.

“I’m not soft.”

“Says the man who’s currently giving me a  _ back massage,” _ Jaskier says.

Geralt’s hand stops moving at that, and Jaskier lets out an involuntary noise of protest. His thumb slowly starts moving again. There is silence for a brief moment, and then Geralt says, “We shouldn’t have gone north.”

Jaskier sighs. “Listen, it was either gamble on the hope that Nilfgaard wouldn’t look for Ciri right on their doorstep, or keep her from having those nightmares. And since you don’t have to deal with those nightmares when they strike, you don’t get a say in it.”

“I’m her guardian.”

“You’re her physical protector. I’m the one who braids her hair and sings her songs and tells her stories and hugs her when she’s scared.”

Geralt grunts.

“You really are bad at speaking normally, you know that?” Jaskier asks, propping himself up on one elbow. “For someone who’s fluent in multiple languages, you’re terrible at communicating in any of them.”

“Shut up, bard,” Geralt says.

“No. You’d have to make me.” 

Geralt turns his head, looks at him, his eyes softly luminescent in the darkness. “Hm,” he says, then cocks his head to the side. “If you insist.” And he pulls Jaskier down on top of him, bringing his lips to the bard’s, kissing him.

That would do it. Jaskier’s brain is suddenly five steps behind what the rest of his body is doing. He’s vaguely aware of the fact that he’s kissing Geralt, that  _ he’s kissing Geralt, _ but it’s more that his lips are responding, almost instinctively, his hands are moving of their own free will to playing with Geralt’s hair, and his brain is still trying to process the fact that he’s kissing Geralt.

“I didn’t realize,” he says, between kisses, once his brain has finally caught up to the rest of him, “that this was how you were going to shut me up.”

Geralt pauses, looks at Jaskier. “I thought it might work.”

“I’m a very good multitasker,” Jaskier replies. “Or so I’m told.”

“Shut up, bard,” Geralt says again.

“Fine.” Jaskier manages to roll off of Geralt, and vaguely feels sorry for the poor bedroll. “But only for you.” He props himself up on his elbow, and kissed Geralt again, roughly this time, desperately.

He really hopes Ciri is asleep. He doesn’t know how he’d answer any questions she might have in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel weird writing for the show now, because I’ve started reading the books and the characterization is just different enough for it to be difficult to switch back to show-style dialogue.

**Author's Note:**

> No kissing this time obviously, but I might add a second chapter to this. Idk. It’s fine and ””complete”” as it is, but I also have more that I could write for this, so we’ll see.


End file.
